


Free Falling

by themoononastick



Category: Bandom, The Young Veins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoononastick/pseuds/themoononastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is metaphysical gravity." (R Buckminster Fuller)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to cmonkatiekatie, cynthia_arrow & foxxcub for the beta.

It’s late, or early, or whatever time of night you call the moment when birds start to wake up and sing good morning to each other and the sun is thinking about joining them in the sky. That’s nothing new; Jon is used to this weird lifestyle of sleeping through the morning, waking up around noon, and maybe thinking about getting out of bed around three. Tonight, though, he’s kind of tired and he’d like to just close his eyes and give in to the pull of sleep, let it take him where it may. But Ryan is awake and that means Jon is awake, because Ryan is spooned in close behind him and Jon can feel he’s hard, and that’s kind of difficult to ignore.

And then there’s the fact that Ryan has his hand wrapped loosely around Jon’s dick, in this vague, maybe he’s trying to start something but got distracted kind of a way. Or maybe it’s that Ryan is just not sure if Jon is still awake. So Jon wriggles back, makes a humming noise deep in his throat, tells Ryan he’s awake and he’s willing without saying a word.

Ryan hums back, presses a kiss to Jon’s shoulder, moves closer until there’s no space between them, unfurls and flexes his fingers, once, twice, like a pianist about to take the stage, then curls them around Jon's dick again.

Ryan is open-mouthed against the back of his neck and for just a second Jon forgets to breathe. The world sways around him, vertiginous and tumbling.

It’s slow, though, too slow. Ryan moving his hand in a maddeningly unhurried rhythm, slightly off-beat, long on the down stroke, short on the up. It’s not nearly enough to get Jon off, but it is enough to make his breath start to stutter. He clamps down on the desire to beg for something more, something firmer and more sure than the slow drag and not-quite-enough pressure Ryan is giving him. And maybe, Jon thinks, maybe that sums up this whole thing they have between them - neither of them giving enough or being willing to ask for more.

But then Ryan twists his wrist, thumb dragging over the head of Jon’s dick, and Jon stops thinking about anything but the feel of Ryan’s hand and the smell of sex that clings to the bed.

Jon’s world has narrowed down to the press of Ryan against his back, Ryan’s breath hot and a little damp on his skin, and the slow, loose feel of Ryan’s hand. It’s still nothing like enough but it’s getting sharper, the feeling of it, as though his nerve endings are sparking extra hard to make up for what Ryan isn’t giving him. He closes his eyes and the room feels darker than it actually is, all the light drained away and replaced by sensation and the low whisper of panted breaths. They’re breathing in time with each other now, with the rhythm that Ryan’s setting: in and out, up and down, a catch at the end of every other stroke to go with the twist of Ryan’s hand.

Jon holds his breath hoping that discord will force Ryan into action, like a petulant crash of chords when a song isn’t coming together quite right. It does the opposite: Ryan’s hand slows, gets looser still until Jon wants to beg, to fucking plead for something, anything that Ryan is willing to give him.

But he doesn’t. He holds it in.

Ryan shifts backwards letting cool air into the gap between their over-heated skin, uncurls his fist and moves away. Jon wants to scream, has to bite down on his lip to keep in the _nonono_ that wants to escape.

He stays still, though, so still; listens as Ryan rustles on the table beside the bed and then sucks in a breath when Ryan slides in close again. Lets Ryan shift them and move them until Jon has one leg draped up and back over Ryan’s thigh and Ryan is in the v of his legs, pressed in close, whispering, "I want to fuck you," in Jon’s ear.

Jon nods, urgent, just a shade desperate; holds his breath as Ryan trails cool, slick fingers between his cheeks.

Jon exhales as Ryan pushes in.

~

Jon wakes up to an empty bed. Again. It’s not unusual. Jon wakes up alone more often than he wakes with Ryan still next to him, but, like always, it makes him blink away the last traces of sleep and haul himself out of bed.

Jon takes a piss, splashes some water on his face and contemplates coffee. His cigarettes and lighter are on the kitchen table; he thinks maybe a nicotine rush will fix the buzzing in his head until he finds the energy to fight with Ryan’s temperamental coffee maker. So he steps outside and turns his face into the sun that’s still low in the sky but feels warm and comforting on his skin.

He stands by the door smoking with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of birds in the trees and the breeze stirring the bamboo wind chimes hanging by the door. They clank together with a deep, hollow thud that counterpoints the high ting of the smaller, metal chimes hanging in the trees by the edge of the cliff. Jon wonders idly if they could capture that sound on tape and use it in a song. But he pushes the thought aside as soon as it comes. Too pretentious, too hippie, and besides, how would they recreate it on stage?

Cigarette smoked, he stubs it out in a plant pot that’s home to a sad looking Agave, a sea of spent butts and the crumpled remains of too many joints, and wanders slowly down the winding path, letting his fingers trail over the leaves of the bushes that line his way. The mattress is still lying out on the lawn, and that’s where he finds Ryan, lying on his back staring up at the sky.

Jon drops down with an 'oof' as his knees hit and Ryan turns to look, smiling wide as he pats the space beside him. Jon tilts his head to the side and considers for a moment before smiling back and dropping forward, rolling into place so they’re side by side staring up at the same patch of sky.

Ryan hums contentedly, rolls up on to an elbow and smiles down at Jon again, and then flops down, half covering Jon with an arm and a leg, murmuring ‘sleep’, elongating the vowels as he nuzzles his head down onto Jon’s shoulder.

Ryan’s hair is tickling his nose and the sun is going to get too hot too soon, but Jon closes his eyes anyway.

~

There’s a tree that hangs out over the cliff right above the wall Spencer built, an old gnarled thing with thick, thick branches that jut out at right angles from the trunk. If Jon reaches up on tiptoe he can grab hold of the thickest, strongest branch and use it to pull himself up to balance on the top of the wall and peer down into the valley below.

There’s a part of him that wonders what it would be like to take a step off: to feel the air rush past him and see the ground get closer, closer, then closer still. What it would be like to take that chance, to just forget his fears and jump, eyes open, head clear, and wait for his feet to hit the ground.

Jon lets his knees sag just a little, bends his body till it curves out over the drop and he can feel the pull of gravity in the strain on his arms. He thinks about jumping and falling and all the ways it could hurt, all the things it could change.

Behind him there’s a cough then a clearing of a throat and Eric says, "Jon?" in a tone that’s just a little too soft not to be born of fear.

Jon pulls himself upright and turns his head until he’s looking backwards, asks, "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to jump?"

Eric frowns then shakes his head. "No."

"I’m not..." Jon pushes himself back from the edge, jumps back down to the safety of the ground, landing with his arms outstretched like a gymnast after dismount. "I’m not going to, I don’t want to jump." Jon pauses, scrubs his hand over his eyes. It’s hard to explain. "It’s like, I think it’s a metaphor or something."

Eric rolls his eyes and laughs. "You spend too much time with Ross."

~

Ryan is talking about synergy and symmetry, rambling on about wavelengths and harmony and perfect balance. Jon stops listening when Ryan starts listing names: Lennon & McCartney, Goffin & King, Jagger & Richards. He doesn’t really buy into Ryan’s sudden case of self-belief.

Jon thinks that if he were to put a name to them right now it would be more like Mickey & Mallory or Charles & Carril Ann: fucked up, co-dependant and out of touch with reality, with a fast track to self-destruction waiting for them on the horizon.

They wake up, they smoke up. They drink, they eat, they fuck, they make music. Day in, day out. Never changing, never moving forward, but never moving back. Caught in an endless loop because pride and fear always gets in the way.

Jon can’t remember the last time he was sober for sex. Scratch that, Jon can’t remember the last time he was completely sober. He thinks it’s been a while. He also thinks that’s probably not so good.

Jon thinks, _I need a drink_.

Jon thinks, _I need a drink and a cigarette_.

Ryan offers him coffee and a bowl instead.

~

Jon is on his knees and the carpet feels soft beneath him; toes curling, he takes a breath.

Time is syrupy-slow, measured in heartbeats and inhale-exhale, speeding up as Jon shuffles forward, fingers clumsy on button, zipper and belt.

There’s skin now and a sharp inhale that trails off into something else, something more, as Jon moves closer still. Mouth open and eager, left thumb tracing the sharp jut of Ryan’s hip, right hand curled into a loose-tight fist to kiss.

Jon is on his knees and Ryan is in front of him; pinned to the wall by Jon’s mouth and hands, hands and mouth.

And right now, right at this moment, Jon is exactly where he wants to be.

~

Jon doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers hunting out a quiet place to sit and think for a while, because the noise of people talking and laughing and playing around in the studio made his head ache.

He remembers wandering into Ryan’s room and hiding himself away in the far corner, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back to the cool wood panelling, where the open door blocked the view from the hallway and he could pretend that no one would find him.

By the light in the room Jon can tell he’s been asleep for a while. It’s getting murky-dark, the trees outside the window blocking most of the sun’s dying light. Except for one last ray that’s slowly shrinking across the floor towards where he’s lying with his head in Ryan’s lap. Jon turns his head just enough to look up. All he can see is the spine of the book Ryan’s reading: gold letters on a black background, not quite in focus enough for Jon to make out the title.

Jon thinks about moving, about standing up and climbing into the bed that’s just a stumble and a yawn away. But Ryan’s fingers are running through his hair, petting him like he’s a cat curled up on Ryan’s lap, and Jon is content to stay where he is.

Ryan turns a page and says, "You sleep too much."

Jon closes his eyes. "You don’t sleep enough."

Ryan shrugs. "We balance each other out."

~

When Jon’s in L.A. he thinks about Chicago, when he’s in Chicago he thinks about L.A. He feels greedy for wanting them both, never satisfied, unsettled and restless.

When he’s in-between, when he’s high in the sky halfway between one and the other, he sometimes wishes the plane would start to dip and he’d feel the clunk of landing gears slipping into place. That the plane would glide down from the skies and leave him stranded somewhere that’s neither place he wants to be.

He thinks he needs an anchor, something to hold on to to make Chicago feel like home again, and home feel like L.A. He thinks about jumping, about landing, about reaching out and holding on to what’s being offered. He thinks about sleeping and waking, of sun-drenched days and sheets that still smell half like him when he gets back from being away.

Early morning, as the sun rises, Jon curls himself along Ryan’s back, fits his knees into the bend of Ryan’s legs and talks into Ryan’s skin. "I think we should..."

"Hmmm?" Ryan murmurs into his pillow, voice sleep-drowned and barely there.

"This thing, we should, I don’t know, we should do it properly." Jon closes his eyes, holds his breath for a beat and thinks about air rushing past him before he speaks again. "We should admit that it’s something."

"I already have." Ryan’s voice is louder now, more distinct. More sure.

"I know." Jon does, it’s just... "I mean I should."

Ryan turns his head, smiles and says, "Okay."


End file.
